


Stop the World I Wanna Get Off With YOu

by latinaeinstein (oneforyourfire)



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: M/M, Office Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-15
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-08-24 05:16:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16633649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneforyourfire/pseuds/latinaeinstein
Summary: Just two minutes, and Kris will indulge in the thing he has with Chanyeol, the cute, too-loud mailroom intern





	Stop the World I Wanna Get Off With YOu

**Author's Note:**

> 2014 fic

Kris taps his pen in a restless tattoo of 2-2-1, blue Bic clicking against the faux charcoal panel as his eyes flicker from the second hand on his screen to the Excel spread sheet he's supposed to be filling out. The cursor blinks, and his eyes dart to the little digital clock once more. He sighs unnecessarily loud, clicks even harder, trying to keep time.

 

It's Tuesday. Almost 12:00PM.

(Almost, almost, almost)

Just two minutes _43, 42, 41_

And Kris will indulge in the _thing_ he has with Chanyeol, the cute, too-loud mailroom intern. The one with big, sinful eyes and big, sinful hands.

Kris just wants it to be lunch already, just wants to stop pretending, just wants it to be time.

 

It's not that Kris _dislikes_ his job—sales is easy enough and he's good at it and it's how he feeds himself, his goldfish—it's just Chanyeol injects color, excitement, something like beauty and purpose into his routine.

It's just that Kris likes the way that Chanyeol's mouth tastes, the fiery way his fingers trail over his skin.

It's just that Kris likes the way Chanyeol's cock feels in his hand, in his mouth, in his ass.

It's just that the anticipation has him stirring in his slacks.

It's just that Kris and Chanyeol have had a _thing_ for almost two months now. A _thing_ a year in the making. Of slow buildup and breathless anticipation, of longing glances cast over the water cooler and the slow lingering drag of Chanyeol's calloused fingers whenever they'd greeted each other. A _thing_ that culminated one Monday morning in Kris pulling a _very_ willing, very eager Chanyeol into the men's room, stall door rattling shut behind him as he'd pushed Chanyeol hard, kissed him harder. And Kris had jerked him off sloppily, tilting his head down to lick over Chanyeol's adam's apple as Chanyeol breathed hard and fast—Kris' name over and over and over again—fingers digging into Kris shirt. He'd returned the favor in time, large fingers warm, calculated, stroking until Kris was spilling into his fist with a muffled whimper.

And it's just that he wants it _so_ fucking bad.

 

Kris glances at the time once more, smiles, powerwalks to the storage closet.

 

Chanyeol is waiting for him when he gets there. Tie-loosened, grin wicked, he leans heavily against the shelves, long legs stretched out, elbows bracketing unopened boxes of printer paper. Chanyeol's breathes out a soft hello, and Kris swallows thickly. Chaneyol licks his lower lip in affected seduction, barking out an unattractive, too-loud laugh as Kris' gaze lingers for a beat too long. His eyes drop to the front of Kris' pants, and he raises a purposeful eyebrow. "Oh, fancy meeting you here, Mr. Wu," he drawls.

(Like it's by chance. Like they don't do this all the time. Like their encounters haven't bled into makeout sessions on Chanyeol's squeaky box mattress, long painfully drawn-out blowjobs on his ugly green carpet, and video game marathons afterwards, with them still naked and disgusting as they scoop ramen into each other's mouths. Like Kris hasn't taken to playing with the calloused tips of Chanyeol's fingers, kissing carefully to avoid papercuts, as he drags Chanyeol's body closer, the younger kissing slowly over his shoulder blade. Like Kris doesn't have an extra toothbrush in his bathroom sink just in case. And like Kris' every orgasm since that Monday, _before_ even—self-inflicted or as the result of that sinful mouth, those sinful fingers—hasn't been with Chanyeol's name rolling off his tongue.)

Kris locks the door behind him with a quick flick of his wrist and tangles his fingers in Chanyeol's dark hair, kissing the smirk off his face.

Chanyeol is younger, but tall and lean just like him. His body folds perfectly, curling underneath his, _accommodating_ as he gasps into his mouth. Kris moans in response, his tongue becoming more insistent as his fingers tiptoe over the buttons of Chanyeol's shirt. He licks over the roof of Chanyeol's mouth as he presses the heel of his palm against Chanyeol's straining erection. Chanyeol bows, knocking something over—pens, it sounds like—as he releases this soft, gaspy sound. His shoes whine against the carpet, skidding helplessly as Chanyeol slumps, desperate. Kris repeats the process, couples it with the shift of his head and the press of his tongue against Chanyeol's throat. Kris can taste his aftershave, his whimper for more. "Hmmm. I just came to get more pens," Kris murmurs instead, groping blindly behind Chanyeol's head, making as if to pull away.

Chanyeol's face pinches in annoyance. "You came to get me off," he counters, dragging his nails against Kris' scalp as he drags him back. He undulates deliberately, pressing hot and hard against Kris. "And you came to get off, too, _Mr. Wu_."

Chanyeol's right, Kris _did_. Does. Will do. Over and over again.

And if they were in Chanyeol's small, shitty studio, or Kris slightly bigger, slightly less shitty apartment, he'd have the luxury of dragging it out, making Chanyeol _beg_ for it. But they don't. But this has to do.

Chanyeol rolls his hips forward once more, seeking friction, and Kris pushes back. Kris' jaw slackens. He thinks about taking him against his desk, knocking over his paper clips, rumpling his starched dress shirt, burying his face, his teeth into the nape of Chanyeol's neck to muffle his moans. He thinks about being bent himself, body folded in half, helpless as Chanyeol drags his sleepy eyes, his calloused fingers, his hot hot tongue down Kris' body while he falls apart.

"Come on, Kris," Chanyeol breathes, voice hot and wrecked against his neck, as he grinds even harder. " _Please_." And there's something cute and endearing and irresistible about the sudden distress in his voice, the heavy tilt of his eyelashes, the bitten quality of his bottom lip.

Kris spares one last kiss to the hollow of Chanyeol's throat before dropping to his knees, tugging him out of pants.

Kris mouths along the head of Chanyeol's cock, pressing with tiny experimental licks that have Chanyeol tensing, arching. He sucks just the tip into his mouth as he wraps his fingers around the base. Kris glides forward, taking more, setting a slow, but deliberate rhythm.

And this is one of his favorite things.

Chanyeol, who is always loud—in his tone, in his presence, in his mannerisms, all booming voice, wide gaits, overzealous reactions—is quietest in these moments. Subdued, muted, transfixed. His large eyes are glazed and heavy-lidded, sleepy, maybe even almost drunk. He lets out these quiet, hitching gasps, large hands soothing carefully—if not a little clumsily—over Kris' gelled black hair. Gentle, dreamy like he's scared of breaking the spell, of tainting the moment. Kris' own cock pulses in response.

Kris swallows down harder, tonguing insistently along the slit of Chanyeol's cock, as he strokes what he can't fit into his mouth. Chanyeol's black slacks irritate the skin of his palm, but his back bows towards the caress. And he's so warm and heavy in his hand, so thick and musky in his mouth. And Chanyeol is soft and affected and completely consumed by Kris' caresses.

Kris pulls back until just the tip of Chanyeol is in his mouth. He laps along the head, dragging his lips obscenely, meeting Chanyeol's eyes.

And Kris knows by the tremble of his lip, the desperate bob of his adam's apple, the little moans puffing out of his mouth, the increasing heaviness of his hands that he's enjoying that. That he's close, and if he maybe just a little bit more.

Kris sucks more into his mouth, just as much as he can take. He hollows his cheeks, flutters his eyelashes against the thickness of Chanyeol's pressing hot and insistent against the back of his throat. Kris widens his eyes, gagging, blinking back tears, blinking up at Chanyeol. Kris swirls his tongue along a vein as he moans around his cock. Dirty and obnoxiously loud.

But Chanyeol moans suddenly, loudly, helplessly. He pitches forward almost violently as he comes heavily in thick pulses that Kris struggles to swallow with a gasp. Cupping his jaw, Chanyeol rasps his name in a breathless praise.

"You're so amazing with your mouth," he manages, dragging him upwards by his shoulders. The sound he releases is more a choke than an actual laugh. "This is why you're #1 in sales, Mr. Wu. Your dedication to your craft."

Kris almost snorts out a laugh, but Chanyeol is pressing him back against the shelves, eager to return the favor.

"Your reward," he promises darkly before falling to the floor.

Chanyeol's mouth is warm and wet and _perfect_. And his fingers are calloused but nimble, large and skilled in getting him off. It's barely a minute in, Chanyeol's big, sinful eyes burning up at him from beneath dark eyelashes, impossibly red lips wrapped tight around the girth of his cock, and Kris is barreling towards orgasm with a forceful shudder, gripping fistfuls of Chanyeol's dark hair.

And Kris can't be bothered to care about his job in that moment. About stale coffee and ink stained fingertips and toner and sales quotas and the white noise of analog clicks. Because everything is Chanyeol and their unnamed, beautiful, perfect, perfect _thing_.

Chanyeol swallows loudly, laughs, waits until Kris recovers before wiping obscenely and unnecessarily at his mouth. And Kris drags him up the hair, kisses him squarely on the mouth as he rights their clothes.

"We've still got 15 minutes of lunch left," Chanyeol drawls, pressing his forehead to Kris' neck, so the words skitter over his overheated skin. Kris shivers. Chanyeol smirks against his throat. "I brought an extra bag of Sun Chips. You want them?"

Kris grabs his hand, threading their fingers together to squeeze briefly, hard, before disengaging with the soft press of his thumb against Chanyeol's wrist.

"Yes," he says as he unlocks the door.


End file.
